


Drawn to the Blood

by Utu



Category: Mr. Robot (TV)
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, No Spoilers, Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-31
Updated: 2020-12-31
Packaged: 2021-03-11 00:20:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,268
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28462302
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Utu/pseuds/Utu
Summary: But aside from all that despair, when I hacked Franz, I saw a loving man. A caring man. He always has time for his friends. He always has time to talk, no matter how busy or tired he is. Maybe that’s why I’m here, standing and watching his house in a suburb in New Jersey.
Relationships: Elliot Alderson/Original Male Character(s)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 5





	Drawn to the Blood

**Author's Note:**

> Ngl I love Elliot. Also, this has no spoilers. Enjoy, I guess.  
> Sufjan Stevens is a very inspirational singer/songwriter. So there's that. Lyrics belong to Sufjan Stevens, ofc.

Have I told you what I saw when I hacked Franz? I saw a lonely man. He’s Googled—in the past month alone—‘what to do when you want to kill yourself’ eleven times. He has also called a few suicide hotlines. Nothing came of them. And I know why; he wasn’t honest with the person he spoke to. He glossed over details of his life, if not straight-up lied. Not wanting to be a burden, I presume.

I’ve never caught his desire to die when talking to him. I’ve never noticed how much pain he’s in. He’s that good of an actor. I think it’s his theater background that makes it easy for him. I think he’s always wearing a mask. Even when he’s looking in the mirror.

He listens to Sufjan Stevens when he’s alone, and he sits in the corner of his bedroom, sobbing and screaming. I saw that from his webcam. And in him, I saw myself. It was like staring into a mirror. His loneliness doesn’t only manifest itself as crying and curling up into a small ball on the floor. It doesn’t only manifest itself in bottles and pills. It’s worse. I’ve seen him cut himself more times than I can count. It’s always resulted in him banging his fist against the wall until blood has painted parts of it red. He screams until his throat is sore, and until he has no voice to scream.

Franz also does porn. It doesn’t matter what kind, but I can tell how happy he is, seeing that people enjoy watching him. Enjoy  _ him. _ It gives him a reason to get up. To do something besides sit and stare at a wall. The act he puts on is impressive. You really can’t tell that he’s about to fall into pieces. He plays his part well, smiling at his webcam as if nothing is wrong. As if he’s as light as a feather. As if the clock to his demise isn’t closer to midnight than it has ever been.

But aside from all that despair, when I hacked Franz, I saw a loving man. A caring man. He always has time for his friends. He always has time to talk, no matter how busy or tired he is. Maybe that’s why I’m here, standing and watching his house in a suburb in New Jersey. The soft light pours out of the slightly cracked windows, coating the asphalt with yellow, and I can hear the music flowing into the street, much to the annoyance of some people walking past his house. He doesn't seem to mind, though.

He’s cooking and dancing. I like it when he cooks. He’s talented. I think he’s making spaghetti. It’s his favorite. That he told me, though, so I didn’t need to look at his diary or his chats with other people. That’s what he told me when we first met, with a voice slurred by too many beers.

I had, for reasons unclear to even myself, went to a bar with Angela and Ollie. It was horrible. Haven’t tried it since. But then there he was, next to me with a pint of dark beer in his hand, his glasses askew. He looked at me, and said, “Spaghetti’s my favorite”. At the time, it made no sense. But I realized later on when he explained it to me, that it was his way of signaling that he wanted to have dinner with me. It was weird, but… then again, who am I to say what is weird and what is not?

Well, three weeks later we had dinner at his house. He made spaghetti, and I watched him cook. I watched his back, and his neck, and I watched his hands working as he prepared salad. I didn’t listen to him, though, as he chitchatted about something I can’t recall anymore. I was mesmerized by his softly flowing movements, the curls on his neck, the barely visible scars on his arms and knuckles. Taken aback by his amazing voice.

But that’s how Franz is. He’s complicated and honest. He acts as if he’s fine but I can’t blame him. I do the same thing. Put on a mask, pretend everything’s fine, so that no one will intrude or bother me. Or so that  _ I _ don't bother anyone. I’ve never had to doubt his word or his actions. He doesn’t think of the repercussions. That’s why he’s so alluring. He's raw in a way that many people aren't.

Franz speaks his mind in a way that I’m not used to. It’s refreshing. That night, when we had dinner, he point-blanked asked me if I wanted to have sex with him. I couldn’t even answer, I was so confused, so I kept staring at him. He just smiled, shrugged, and said that whatever’s fine. It was odd how he wasn’t angry. Or even disappointed. He took my silence as a ‘no’, and did what no one has done with it before; he cherished it. To him, my honesty was far more valuable than any physical contact. He didn’t try anything that night. Or since.

Or maybe that’s the reason I’m here. As my knuckles come into contact with his door, I wonder if I’m doing the right thing. I tell myself that yes, I am doing the right thing. Because Franz is going to kill himself tonight. And I need to give him a reason not to. I need to do  _ something. _

He opens the door, and a wide smile spreads to his face. “Elliot! What a lovely surprise. You hungry? I’m cooking.” He steps aside, jerks his head, and adds, “Spaghetti.” There's nothing behind his eyes anymore. They're empty. Not even full of pain, just plain empty. When he smiles, his eyes don’t light up anymore. They’re stagnant.

I nod. Words are meaningless after all, aren’t they? Or, to quote Sufjan Stevens, ‘and words are futile devices’. I’m not good with words. More often than not I feel like I’m thinking the wrong things, saying the wrong things, doing the wrong things. When someone manages to pry a reply out of me, they always look at me funnily. Like I suddenly sprouted a second head or another set of eyes. Like whatever the hell I said just isn't worth the hassle. Like I’m not worth the hassle.

Franz is already back in the kitchen when I make my way inside his house. He’s a good singer. He’s signing  _ Drawn to the Blood _ by, you guessed it, Sufjan Stevens. It’s playing from his speakers, but at a low volume, so that his voice overpowers Sufjan's in a very gentle way.

“How are you?”

He freezes mid-stanza, just momentarily, before turning around to look at me. His brow knits. “What?” he asks, eyes narrow and dangerously sharp.

“I…” Words are so fucking useless. “How are you? You look…” Like you’re going to kill yourself soon. “Tired.”

_ What did I do to deserve this? _ Sufjan sings.  _ With blood on my sleeve, Delilah avenge my grief. _

“Feeling a bit under the weather.” His eyes catch mine.

“Just a bit?” I ask, forcing the words out of my mouth. I need to intervene. To do something. I need to step the fuck up.

Franz hums. “Elliot Alderson. You sure have your way of reading people. Or is it just me? Is it pretentious to think that? No, I don’t think so.” He does that. Answers his own questions, without giving me enough time to answer them. “I’m not good. It’s been a hard few weeks.” His honesty flows over, and the levees break. There's a subtle tremble to his voice. A flash of something in his eyes, which he quickly flits away from me, muscles rigid.

Hard. Difficult. Excruciating. Of course, I know all about it. His brother died. Because of a drunk driver. And as fate would have it, his brother didn’t wear a seatbelt. The impact with the semi threw him through the windshield, and straight into a concrete barrier. The end came quickly, but too early like it always does, and it left red splatters all over the black asphalt. Red ribbons of someone else’s life strewn about.

Suicide, the cops ruled. It couldn’t have been, Franz had screamed into the phone, tears streaming from his eyes. If one had to pick a moment that broke Franz, that was it. That’s the moment that made him say, ‘enough’, that’s the moment that was the catalyst to everything that followed, that’s the moment that stripped him of everything he loved.

Now his speakers are playing  _ Vesuvius. _

_ "Follow the path, it leads to an article of imminent death," _ Franz sings quietly, and few times his eyes flit to mine, and he smiles. But again, it’s empty. I tap the smooth surface of his kitchen isle with my fingers, wondering if he’ll ever know how much I care about him. Well, the problem is with me not being able to tell him that. I wonder if  _ I _ stand between him and death. Between this life and whatever comes next. I also wonder if it’s arrogant of me to think that.

I wait in silence as Franz finishes his cooking. I eat, silently, as he talks about a book he just read. Occasionally, I look at him, and smile, or nod. It’s to show him that he’s not alone. That I’m here. I don’t know if he sees it, or even understands it. Or even if it matters.

He talks and he talks. His hands cut the air, first sharply, then more gently as he unwinds. He talks about everything but himself. That’s his special talent. He knows how to speak for hours on end without ever saying a thing.

Later, I take his hand when he offers it, and let him pull me closer. I’m shaking, as he drags the hood off of my head, his hand following closely behind, smoothing my hair. I kiss him. Try to tell him that way that I care. That someone cares. That someone will miss him.

A smile caresses his features as he rests his hands on my shoulders, literally keeping me at an arm’s length. Then he lets go and takes a step back, shaking his head slightly, and an exhale parts his lips, breaking that smile into nothingness. He looks lost, the hand of Death already gripping him tight, pulling him away from me, from reality.

He stirs when I lean closer, catching a protest before it even leaves his lips. He hums, hands on my arms, sliding down, then fingers laced with mine. “Do you want this?” he asks into my neck, his lips a hair’s breadth away from my sweaty skin.

I nod.

And that’s enough for him. He pulls me, leading me through his house, up the stairs. My heart is painfully loud, and my hand on his is trembling. He squeezes, and a weird sort of calmness washes over me. He understands me in a way people rarely do.

His bedroom is dingy. A pile of letters sits at his desk. My hand jerks, a need to grab them and read them rises. I need to find out if they are the suicide letters he’s been writing about. I wonder what’s in them, as Franz unbuttons his shirt, sliding it off with ease. He unzips my hoodie, gently humming as he does, hands against my ribcage. He’s closer to my heart than he’s ever been.

“Are you sure?” he whispers, his hands follow the fabric as it falls off my body, fingers sneaking to part my t-shirt from my body.

“Yeah.”

“You don’t sound too enthusiastic.”

“I’m… nervous.”

Franz smiles. “Me too.”

It sounds impossible, but I know he’s telling the truth.

It’s not fireworks, angel choirs, or anything like that. Franz is slow, gentle, and his fingers work their way down my body, making the springs of the bed moan underneath my weight. I don’t know if I should warn him or not, but even if I want to, I’m too late. I unravel into his hand with a small sound that I don’t recognize as my own.

He claims that he’s all right, that he doesn’t need anything, but when I slip my hand between his thighs, he trembles, pressing into me. His legs are tangled with my own as I dig my teeth into his neck, my fingers moving back and forth inside him. I try to coax out the will to live from him, but whether I’m successful or not, I cannot tell.

I grab his hands, lacing my fingers with his, as I dive into him. He looks at me, lashes wet, inviting me into a kiss with only that look. I want this, I want all of this. But I also want to get out of here, and I want him to not die.

Rarely, I get what I want, so I’m not holding my breath. He is, though, as he comes. Eyes half-lidded, his mind already miles away, he pulls me in. His breath, damp and oppressing, against my chest is driving me crazy.

I’m not sure if it’s my shortcomings, or what, but I leave without saying a word. I sneak out when Franz’s eyes fall shut and his breathing evens. I can’t say anything of value, can’t do anything of value. My fingers are so tightly wrapped around my phone that it hurts. I lean my forehead against the outside wall of Franz’s house, unable to move. What the hell am I supposed to do?

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! <3 Drop a kudos and/or a comment if you can.


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